Therapy Can Be Very Helpful
by BlueSkye12
Summary: A look at John's therapy sessions with Ella right after he was discharged. "John looked at his discharge orders yet again. His chest tightened every time he read it. His military career was over."
1. Chapter 1

_**Chapter 1**_

_**A/N**_ – _In his sessions with Ella, italics represent John's thoughts and memories. None of these are voiced out loud. John doesn't actually say a whole lot. _

John looked at his discharge orders yet again. He had known officially for almost three weeks and unofficially for much longer that he was being declared unfit for duty and would be discharged on 30 November. Retirement the colonel had called it, as he shook John's hand, like it was a good thing. Honourable discharge (medical causes) was what the piece of paper said. John's chest tightened every time he read it. His military career was over. They hadn't even given him the option (not that he wanted it) of a clinical position or even an administrative post. It was all just ... over. John lay the discharge face down before continuing on to the next items in his separation packet, a voucher for MOD subsidized housing and a list of landlords in greater London who supposedly accepted the vouchers. He had circled the sixteenth name on the second page, Kishore Maddipoti. All thirty three previous names on the list had been duly called and struck off. John was to meet with Mr. Maddipoti today at 11 a.m. and should be prepared to pay the first week's rent plus security deposit in cash. John had googled the address. The building was on the edge of a dodgy neighbourhood and he strongly suspected the "one bedroom efficiency" would be little more than a bedsit. And all for the reduced rate of £190 a week, in advance, utilities and internet not included.

Today was December 2nd. Harry had dutifully, if somewhat grudgingly, offered to collect John from the outpatient housing near Queen's Hospital in Brighton, even saying he could stay at her place in Camden. John had declined assuring her that his transportation and housing were already set. Instead, he had parted with the £24.70, plus cab fare, and took the train from Brighton to Victoria Station and got a room in a budget tourist hotel. Less than two days into "retirement" and he was already out two hundred quid. At least the room came with unlimited local phone calls. He took the smart phone Harry had given him out of his back pocket. She had called and sent him several texts but he had yet to make a single call on it. Having to accept the phone was bad enough, he would not have his calls going onto Harry's bill. He would get himself some sort of mobile plan this week. Rejoin the 21st century. He had been deployed to Afghanistan for most of the last three and a half years. While there he had relied on e-mail. He wasn't even sure where his trusty old flip phone was? Probably it was in one of boxes he had stored at Harry's. John turned the new phone over in his hand and shook his head. _Clara_. She, much more so than Harry, had been his lifeline during those early weeks at Queen's. She was the one who had always seemed to be there when he woke, the one who had sat with him hours when he could barely move or talk or think straight. Harry had usually headed to the loo or out for a cigarette after about ten minutes in the presence of her gravely ill brother. He thought about Clara's last awkward visit to Brighton*, on the day after the colonel had informed him of his imminent retirement, and wondered whether he'd ever see her again. His sister was such an idiot.

John placed the housing list aside and turned to the next item in the package, a sheaf of pages explaining his _sliding-scale, early-separation pension with partial (less than 50%) disability compensation_. John did not need his A-level in maths to know that his _age-graduated annuity_ alone would not be enough to live on, especially in London. He scanned his disability designation, less than fifty percent, and thought of the ludicrous list of disability descriptions in that category. Designations to which he had assigned other wounded soldiers without really appreciating the legal and financial connotations. _Loss of vision in one eye where uncorrected sight in other eye is at least 20/100; loss of thumb and/or 2 or more digits on the same hand; permanent reduction in range of motion of one limb involving whole limb or multiple joints in same or different limb; loss of single hand/arm or foot/leg below elbow or knee, such that said elbow or knee was functional. _John's mind flashed to Varick and the IED. He felt the Afghan summer heat and smelled the diesel smoke and heard the three shots†... He all but jumped out of his chair. Shoving the financial statement aside, he staggered until he got his cane under him, a sharp pain shooting through his right leg. He stood in place panting for a few seconds while he regained his control, then he grabbed his coat and headed for the door. He could walk, damn it, and he bloody well would walk. Everyday. He wasn't a cripple, forty nine percent or otherwise, which was more than Varick could say. Several papers fluttered off the desk as John forcefully swung the door closed behind him. One landed face up on the chair. It was a referral to Dr. Ella Thompson, MBPsS, for psychological services.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Ella Thompson was running late. She had been running late all day. Cursed traffic. She had a new patient at 2 p.m. and usually liked to have at least a half an hour before the first meeting to prepare but, as it was, she was lucky to have half that. She flipped open the folder, another returning veteran. Nearly ten percent of her patients over the last five years were returning soldiers. Although she appreciated the referrals and her success rate was quite good, she always had the same sinking, inadequate feeling upon meeting a new one. Their struggles were often so great and their experiences genuinely horrific. Remembering a favorite saying of her old clinical psych professor, _'one does not need to have had a heart attack to be a cardiologist', s_he collected her thoughts and began reviewing the file.

This one was different. Most of her ex-military patients were returning enlisted personnel in their early- to mid-twenties. This one was older, an officer, a career soldier, and a doctor. A what? Ella reread that bit. A trauma surgeon, wounded by sniper fire while treating casualties from an IED in a forward area. Ella let out a slow breath while she digested this. Then she flipped forward in the file to see the extent of his injuries and his medical outcomes. The man had certainly had a rough go of it. She read through the preliminary evaluation from the staff psychologist at the hospital, _moderate to severe PTSD presenting as nightmares and through persistent somatic complaints, profoundly dissociated and resistant to therapy yet exceptionally aware of and empathetic to the needs of others_. Interesting. In most cases dissociation was a global shut down. The individual unplugged from themselves and from those around them. Maybe his hyper-awareness was because of his medical ... She started slightly at the sound of the intercom interrupting her thoughts and glanced at her watch, 1:59 p.m. Apparently her new patient was also prompt.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

John scanned the office as he entered. The room was comfortably furnished, had large windows, tasteful wall hangings and was perfectly round. He enjoyed the novelty of that for a moment before turning his attention to Dr. Ella Thompson. His therapist, a tall attractive black woman, was walking toward him with her hand outstretched.

"Hello, Doctor Watson, I'm Ella Thompson, a pleasure to meet you," she said with cordial professionalism.

John awkwardly shuffled his cane to shake her hand and issued a quiet reply, "John."

Ella smiled reassuringly as she continued. She knew her patients were often ill-at-ease during the first appointment.

"OK, John. Please call me Ella. Have a seat," she indicated the two chairs behind her. John moved to the chair nearest the door but stood next to it until Ella sat in the chair opposite.

Ella's first thought upon seeing John Watson was that she had never met anyone, in or out of uniform, who was so obviously a soldier. He was a bit on the short side, probably not quite as tall as her, but everything about him, his hair cut, his posture, his build, the expression set on his face, absolutely screamed military.

"Thank you," she said as she sat, acknowledging his courtesy. She noticed that after he sat he made direct eye contact. Unlike most of her new patients, he did not seem nervous or anxious. His eyes, which were a rather remarkable dark blue, were set like stone and his face was a neutral, expressionless mask. In fact, he seemed almost defiant. No, that wasn't quite right, or at least not all of it. Determined, that was it. This was difficult for him but he was determined to meet it head on.

"So, John, why are you here?" she opened clasping her hands in front of her. John blinked and looked puzzled.

"I have to. I got shot. It's required," he answered. Ella smiled at the honest, no-nonsense answer. She also noted that John did not seem to have difficulty acknowledging his injury. That was hopeful.

"I'm sorry, let me be more specific. What would you like to address during these sessions?"

He took a breath as if to speak but held it. His jaw clamped tight as he let the breath back out as if to purposely keep any errant words from escaping. He glanced toward the window for a moment. His mind was suddenly racing.

_What did he want? The evaluation was mandatory for all wounded veterans, a minimum of 2 to 4 sessions usually, although there was no upper limit. His original inclination had been to suffer through the required sessions and be done with it. However, while John Watson certainly had a surfeit of pride, he had never been one to fool himself. Things were not going well. How many times had he earnestly recommended to his patients that they make full use of the psychological services? _

He squared his shoulders and took another breath. This time he spoke,

"My leg hurts."

The session progressed slowly. John appeared to be trying but was both stoic and reticent by nature. Ella had to work for each and every response. She tried to get him to expand more on his leg pain, its severity and triggers. She asked if he had any other somatic complaints and had waited through nearly two minutes of silence before he glanced at his left hand and nodded once. She sensed that for each word he spoke whole paragraphs went unsaid. Ella knew implicitly that he was being truthful, but she also knew that each answer he revealed seemed to cost him. She made note of it, _apparent deep-seated trust issues._

"You attach very negative connotations to therapy, don't you?" she stated bluntly after several more minutes. That got his attention. John straightened, his ear tips flushed red and he cleared his throat.

"No, um, no. It's just not something I ... it's just not how I was raised." He sat back into the chair and resumed idly traced the pattern on the arm of the the chair with his finger.

"OK, fair enough. Let's back up and talk about that, then. Where are your roots?" John looked slightly confused by the sudden change of tack.

"You're not originally from London, are you?" Ella clarified.

"No, I, um, grew up in Essex, um, outside Chelsea actually."

"Any attachments there? Family? Childhood memories?"

_John thought of a picture he had squirreled away in his box. The picture was of Harry and him on a beach in Spain from the only summer holiday the Watson family ever took. __John remembered his 11 year-old self being happy on that once-in-a-life-time visit to Spain. He and Harry, removed from their normal surroundings, had actually got on for the entire fortnight. Playing on the warm, sun-drenched beach. Exploring nearby villages on bike all by themselves. Successfully ordering ice cream or Coca Cola although neither of them spoke a word of Spanish. It was fun and John had taken it as a sign that everything was going to be OK, that his family would be normal from now on and that the fighting and trouble were all in the past. But, that wonderful holiday turned out to be just another lie. School had barely begun (he'd just started at the King Edward Grammar School, Dad was so proud) when the fighting started again. Mum was drinking, that much John knew, but the rest he hadn't understood at the time. Dad moved out shortly after Christmas and by the time summer holidays came around again Rupert had moved in. By the next Christmas John had learned many things, how to get himself off to school, how to get his own food, how to wash his own clothes, how to block out the chaos and concentrate on his homework, how to duck and how not to cry. Harry, who never did know when to shut up, was Rupert's favorite target but sometimes John couldn't be quiet enough. He never told anyone, though, not Miss Frazer, his favorite teacher, not Mr. Beacham, his rugby coach, not even his Dad. He didn't want to get Mum in trouble. And no one had noticed. Johnny Watson was always quiet. Never a trouble maker. His grades were good, not outstanding, but a boy with his background couldn't be expected to make top marks. Nobody noticed until John ended up in hospital with a concussion, and a broken arm. He and Harry had gone to live with their Dad, Rupert had gone to prison for 6 months, and Mum had cried that she was so sorry. John loved her, he really did, but never trusted her again._

"No. I, ah, haven't been back since I left secondary school," John said without inflection.

"And what about your parents? How is your relationship with your father?" Ella looked up from her notes.

_John knew his dad was a good man. He had worked long hours in a factory job that he hated to support his family. In return, he had had high expectations for his children. There was no room for excuses in the Watson family. That both John and Harry would go to uni was always assumed, a given in his Dad's mind. He made sure John worked hard in school, constantly reminding him that he needed better grades if he was going to get a scholarship. Dad had also encouraged John to play sports, especially rugby, but also told him there was no point in playing unless he was good. Then, when John was 15, Dad got sick. John studied harder and made first fifteen in rugby and Dad went into remission. John was approaching 6th form and Dad encouraged him to go for as many A-levels as he could so John did. Then Dad relapsed so John studied even more, Dad got sicker and John played even harder, 2nd team league all-star. Then Dad had started talking to John about the army. The army could help him pay for uni. If he graduated from university, he would be an officer. Then John planned one beyond Dad. He wouldn't just go to uni, he'd go to medical school. Dad had liked that. _

_John's rugby team had made the tournament later that year. Dad came out to the pitch for the big game bundled in his winter coat even though the day was mild. Mr. Beacham hadn't seen Mr. Watson at any games for quite a while. He was shocked by the sight of the man. In fact most of the boys were staring at Watson's dad. Mr. Beacham didn't have to tell them what to do. John played every minute, he carried the ball more than any other player and scored more points than he ever had but the boys on the other side were bigger and more experienced. The team lost. John stayed on the pitch after all the other boys had left. He stood stone faced next to the frail old man who was his dad. Dad was dying and nothing 16 year-old John could do would stop that. He died on a Tuesday one week after John's seventeenth birthday. He had been just 37 years old. _

"He's dead," John said flatly. Ella raise her eyebrows inquiring.

"Died when I was 17. Cancer," John explained expression unchanged.

"Oh, I see. And your mother?" John looked off to the side again and was quiet for a beat before answering.

_John had loved his mum. When he was young she read him stories using all sorts of funny voices. She used to take Harry and him to the beach. She had taught them how to swim and how to ride a bike, let them help with the baking in the kitchen and always brought them to the fair each autumn. John's mum had tried her best. She really had but she was young and had never had the chance to learn who she was before she became pregnant at 17, was forced to marry and then became the mother of twins at 18. She had loved her children, and even her husband, at one time, but was ill-equipped to deal with the tedium and isolation that teenage parenthood and marriage brought, especially in the face of her father's crushing disapproval. At first, she only drank to help get herself through the bad days, then she drank to get through every day. Harry and Dad used to get angry when she was drunk. John had just resented it. Then, when he was twelve, everything came apart and Rupert happened._

_After his dad's death, John moved back to live with his mum until the end of the school year. Two weeks after school ended John left for basic training. The army would be sending him to Bart's in the fall, just as he and Dad had planned. He never lived in his mum's house again._

_As John got older he gained more and more empathy for his mum. During his time at Bart's he found himself thinking things like mum never got to go to uni, and at my age (21) Mum couldn't go on all-night pub crawls she had 3-year-old twins at home, and so on. He had tried to visit regularly, to accept the past and move on, to forgive, but he never really managed it. She had let Rupert into their house. And, then, in the end, she had gotten in the car with Steven (her latest boyfriend) that night. John had been deployed to a remote area in Sierra Leone at the time. It had taken two days for the news to reach him and three more days for him to get home, arriving in London just hours before the funeral (Harry had been furious with him). The terrible irony was that while Steven's blood alcohol had been nearly three times over the limit, Mum had be completely sober._

"Died in a car crash, six years ago," he said rotely, his voice remaining even and flat. Ella frowned a bit in sympathy. "My condolences," she said before making another note.

"Siblings?" she prompted.

"Just my sister, she lives up in Camden." Ella nodded.

"Are you close? Is she why you decided to come to London after your discharge?"

_Harry Watson was a loud and brash as John was reserved and guarded. She demanded attention whenever she walked into a room and often behaved badly if she didn't get it. One would have thought, given their difficult home life, that Harry and John would have been close, but that was not the case. They were allies of necessity and little more. To deal with their tumultuous childhood and her own struggles with her sexuality, Harry had adopted and perfected a wild-child persona. Harry did whatever Harry pleased and the world be damned. After rebelling her way through the local comprehensive, she breezed through university despite her crazy life style, then moved on to make a splash in the corporate world. All the while John had dutifully worked his way through Bart's and spent his summers drilling with the army. Always the life of the party, Harry had lived the London club scene to the utmost, often binge drinking entire weekends away. John had worried about her, of course he had, but their relationship was such that she never would have listened so he never bothered to say anything. Beside, he resented her drinking even more than he resented their mum's. _

_But then, after years of partying, after Jane and Meaghan and Francis and CeeCee and Rita and Patricia (or was it Patricia then Rita?), Harriet had somehow found Clara. Clara, who was clever and accomplished and pretty and patient and cheeky and strong. John had immediately liked her and had also immediately been jealous. Not in a romantic sense, he had never thought of Clara that way. He was jealous because Harry ... of all people ... flighty, caustic, difficult drunkard, Harry ... had found someone wonderful to love who loved her right back. What the hell was wrong with him? He had never had a relationship that came anywhere close, and he had tried! He had enough trouble just making friends. Jealousy aside, John had always known that his sister didn't deserve Clara and that one day she would hurt her. That day had come and gone while he was in hospital, and he had been unaware. He thought about Clara's last visit and of the phone in his pocket. He was done with Harry for the moment._

"No." John said firmly. Thinking better of it, he tried to soften his response.

"It's just, um, I liked London while I was at Bart's. Thought I could look for a position here ... ah, I mean, eventually." John looked at his shoes and balled his left hand into a tight fist.

"How about other family? Friends?" Ella asked lightly already surmising his response.

"Ah, not really. None in the city, anyway. Most of my regiment is still deployed,"

"So most of your friends are also soldiers?" Ella had clasped her hands in front of her again. She was looking at him awaiting a response. John return her gaze head on.

_He had been a soldier his entire adult life. Of course his friends were soldiers! He thought of kind Bill Murray and fun-loving Jasmine Singh, of quirky Artie Doyle__and finally of fearless and fearsome James Sholto. He remembered having had breakfast with Sholto that morning as was their custom, a last moment of normalcy. Little had either of them known what the day would bring._

"Um, yeah," was what he said. Ella nodded appraisingly before speaking,

"John, I'm not prying aimlessly here. It's important that we identify your available support system. Feelings of isolation are very common among returning veterans, especially those who have seen combat. Many try to translate their war experiences into their new life but can't so they withdraw. It can be a devastatingly lonely period. The most import step in making a successful transition to civilian life is the renewing or developing of connections. Connections to family, to significant others, to friends and to the community at large, that can include employment, as well." Ella noticed that John looked away on the word employment again balling his left hand into a tight fist.

"Eventually," she tacked on gently. He gave her a thin approximation of a smile and she continued. "It takes effort, all the more so in your case, because you've relatively few local connections to start." She paused to gauge his reaction but he gave none. He still wore the same flat, dissociated mask.

"Another important step in the transition is the establishment of new daily patterns and routines. As you well know, military life is replete with regimentation. While many soldiers like to complain about it, most actually find some degree of comfort in the routine and miss it when it is suddenly removed." John gave a single, tight nod in agreement. He, himself, missed everything about being a soldier.

"You mentioned before that you've been making an effort to walk regularly, to strengthen your leg." John tensed at her mention of his leg but she moved off the subject without judgment or even a pause.

"I would suggest that you not only continue with that but also create other routines and scheduled activities. These can be either physical or intellectual pursuits. For example, journal writing has proven therapeutic benefits. Setting aside time each day to write provides many people with a meaningful way to work through their difficult thoughts." John was far too polite to roll his eyes at this recommendation but he looked highly skeptical nonetheless.

"And since you also need to broaden your base of connections, I think you should try using a more public format. A blog, for example." John's eyes widened. His first overt reaction since walking through the door.

"Sorry, a what?" he spluttered. Ella smiled warmly.

"A blog. There are any number of websites which you can use. Start by simply keeping a record of things that happen to you." Ella closed her notes and stood up signaling the end of the session. "Let's plan on meeting again next Tuesday. Cynthia can schedule it." John stood, nodding, and began moving toward the door. He stopped halfway, pivoting awkwardly on his cane.

"Seriously? You want me to keep a ... a blog?" he questioned, hoping against hope that he'd somehow got it wrong.

"Yes, I think you will find it very beneficial." Ella answered earnestly. John nodded vaguely and left the office.

_/-/-/-/-/-/_

_**A/N** –_ This story will be a prequel (of sorts) to my story _Adjusting_. It started out as a chapter for that story and just kept growing so I split it off. Hopefully it will work out.

All the gobbledygook about John's pension and disability designation is totally made up. I'm sure the British Army treats its veteran's well. It was inspired by reading my company's disability insurance policy at my first job. The pamphlet literally went on for pages and pages about how much you got for an arm versus a hand versus multiple limbs. And of course, double indemnity for accidental death on company time. No kidding.

* † Although not necessary to follow this chapter, or the new story, you may want to read my stories Twelve Minutes, Sensitivity Training, Meeting Clara and Permission Denied to get a fuller picture of my head canon on John's injury and his relations with Harry and Clara.

I don't own any of these characters. I borrowed Artie Doyle from one of my favorite fics, _An Innocent Man_, by Fang's Fawn. You should go read it right now. Then send a review (a nice one, of course) to pester the author for more chapters, even though she updates MUCH more regularly than I do, because I can't wait ;-)

Comments, criticisms, corrections and reviews are eagerly sought. Not beta'd or Brit-picked.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter 2**_

_**A/N**_ – _This chapter contains rather graphic descriptions of war and injury. Again, in his sessions with Ella, italics represent John's thoughts and memories. None of these are voiced out loud. _

John had thought the previous week had been boring but at least he had had a list of tasks, like finding a flat and setting up bank accounts, that needed doing. His first appointment with Ella had been the last thing on that week's to-do list. This week John literally had had nothing to do. What had Ella said last week about feeling of isolation and loneliness? Check the box for those. He could not remember another time in his life when he had been so idle, so bored or so utterly alone. He had put himself on a schedule as much by nature as by Ella's suggestion. He woke early, did his PT exercises, read the papers, walked and practised his handwriting, but the days were still endless and the nights were even longer.

/-/-/-/-/-/

_The second session ..._

"So, John, how was your week?" Ella began directly after John had seated himself. He regarded her for a moment before answering, his stone mask firmly in place.

_Endless, tedious and gray._

John gave a small gesture with his hand, "Um, fine."

Ella raised her eyebrows, an expression John would soon come to hate. No other tool in her arsenal, no word or action, was as piercing or insightful as Ella Thompson's raised eyebrows.

"Really?" she said mildly, skeptical. She waited a beat for elaboration but none was forthcoming.

"Were you able to get started on your blog?"

_It had taken him less than an hour to choose a blogging website and set up his profile but he had nothing to post, not a single bloody thing. The highlight of his week had been getting a haircut. The low-light was smashing a jar of jam on the floor of Tesco because his hand had started to shake and he couldn't maintain his grip. Neither were particularly post-worthy._

"Yeah. I mean, I set it up." John answered truthfully. Ella nodded.

"Good, good. Remember, your posts needn't be anything grand. Just jot down things that happen to you as a start." She asked for and made note of the blog's URL.

"Anything else?" she encouraged looking up from her notes. John returned her gaze. His mouth twitched in an attempted smile but he said nothing.

Ella Thompson had spent her career getting people to talk. She knew all the types. There were those who talked freely and vociferously at the slightest provocation. There were those who were reticent to start but once she hit upon the right question or topic they opened up like flood gates. Then there were those who interleaved periods of quiet reluctance with periods of angry or teary outbursts. Finally, there were the John Watsons, patients who never revealed more than asked and who never lost control. They were the most challenging and, often, the most at risk, like the man across from her now.

"How is you physical health?"

"Fine. Good."

"So, you're fully recovered? No outstanding treatments, then?"

_John's first memory as he slowly awoke from the anesthesia after the third surgery was the pins and needles sensation spreading down his left arm and out through his fingers. No, that wasn't right. The surgery was supposed to fix that. It must be the post-operative swelling that's still causing some impingement. It would get better. But it didn't and it wouldn't. Later that afternoon both Norman Zu, the orthopedic surgeon, and Celeste Parker, his neurologist, came to his room. His current roommate, a 23-year old lieutenant, with moderate traumatic brain injury, had just been taken down for another CAT scan. An ice-cold lump formed in the pit of John's stomach when Celeste turned and closed the door. Norman dropped casually into the visitor's chair and leaned forward a bit. _

"_Well, John, we removed the floating bone chips, eight in all, and repaired the coracoclavicular ligament like we discussed. That should reduce the discomfort and free up your range of motion a bit," he began in his no-nonsense style._

"_But?" John had said softly in to the space not really wanting to hear the answer. _

"_As Norman said, your range of motion should improve and be quite good, actually. But, there was no impingement on the axilla as we thought, nothing to relieve," Celeste continued. John recognized that she was dropping in to professional bad-news mode._

"_Fortunately, as you know, none of the three cords* were severed. Amazing that, really, given the state of your clavicle. But, the posterior cord is visibly damaged." The cold lump in John's stomach fell through the floor._

"_I'm sorry, John, but I don't think there is anything more that can be done."_

"No," John said succinctly. Ella wasn't completely sure which question he had answered but suspected, perhaps, both. She decided to let it pass for now.

"Medications?" she asked.

"Carisoprodol and lidocaine plasters." John replied his voice flat. Ella made note of medications. Pain, both real and psychosomatic, was often a positive indicator for depression.

"How is the pain?"

"It's OK. It's just the leg most days and that's ... I don't take the Carisoma for that," John answered.

"On a scale of 1 to 10 what is your pain level at right now?" Ella inquired. John paused, again reluctant, but he needed to address this. This was why he was here.

"While sitting here? A three." He shifted in his chair.

"Point to the pain." Ella said. John cleared his throat and shifted again..

"There's nothing wrong. I know it. I do. I try ..."

"John, where does it hurt?" her voice was calm but insistent. John reached down and rubbed his right leg just above the knee.

"Is that the site of injury?" she pointed with a pen to where John's hand still kneaded his leg.

"Hyper flexation, a tear in the patellar tendon, fixed arthroscopically. It's fine, completely healed." John said without inflection. He forced himself to sit straighter in his chair and return his hand to the arm rest.

"How did it happen?" she continued. John felt irrational embarrassment rising, coloring his face and the tips of his ears. Why was she pressing this? He bloody well knew the leg was physically fine. That wasn't the problem here.

"I fell on it, just landed funny. That's all. It's nothing. I ..."

"When you were shot," Ella interrupted her voice even but firm.

John stilled. He felt his muscles tense and his breath quicken.

"What?" he asked in a quiet voice.

"You fell on it, landing funny, causing an injury which required surgery when you were shot. Is that correct?" she cocked her head to the side slightly awaiting a response. John blinked rapidly three times. One blink for each shot that echoed distantly in his head.

_If asked, John would have described being shot exactly as most people describe traumatic injury, a sudden explosion of pain which registered in his brain as a blinding, white-hot flash. That was his overwhelming impression. Yet, in the dark of the night, when he allowed himself to think further about it, he could also recall each instant separately and distinctly. He could actually remember his surprise at the bullet punching through his scapula and feel its spiraling trajectory through the soft tissue of his shoulder. This then culminated in the agonizing shattering of his clavicle before the round ripped its way out of his body only to be stopped by the inside surface of his body armour. Irony, that. Underneath all of this, however, was the pain of his right knee flexing unnaturally and his tendon tearing as he was unable to stop his awkward, twisting face-plant into the dirt._

John cleared his throat before answering, "Yes."

"That is not nothing," Ella said bluntly. John blinked again and looked away.

"John, you're a doctor, I don't have to tell you that pain is a funny thing. It's a serves as both a warning and a reminder. And it's notoriously imprecise, especially in the case of severe trauma. The mind and body are not nearly as compartmentalized and separate as people like think. The pain is real because the experience was real."

John paused unsure how to react to this affirmation.

"Yeah, but it's healed now. I know it is. There's no reason ..." he began gesturing to his knee.

"It. Happened." Ella interrupted again. John looked down briefly before forcing himself to look back up.

"Don't we have this the wrong way 'round? Aren't _you_ supposed to be telling _me_ it's all my head?" John quipped causing Ella to smile. She pulled out her best line.

"Of _course_ it is in _your head_, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?"** she quoted ruefully. John's eyes narrowed in confusion then quickly widened in recognition. He chuckled and cracked a small but genuine smile. Ella was struck by how the smile transformed his face. Seeing this glimpse of what she assumed was his normal, warm visage made his current dissociated despondence seem all the more unnatural and wrong.

"Our minds tend to get stuck, John, living in memory and continuously drawing us back to the moment of trauma. They will continue to do so until new thoughts, new patterns of memory supplant the old. Staying in the present, living in the present, and not at the moment of trauma is essential if we're to move past the event. That's another reason for keeping the blog. It will help keep your mind in the present by focusing on what is happening to you now." Ella looked earnestly at her patient but John had reasserted his flat stone mask. He made no outward acknowledgement. She wondered if her words were having any effect.

John worked his jaw. All he had was memories. Part of him wanted to scream but he was a soldier and would never give in to that sort of nonsense. His expression remained outwardly unchanged. He knew that Ella was honestly trying to help and that she believed what she said. It also felt surprisingly good, better than he would ever admit, to hear someone, a professional therapist no less, acknowledge his pain. The doctors and physio therapists at Queen's Hospital had been great. They were skilled and tough and had pushed him hard. He knew that he owed both his life and his high degree of function to them, but they had also had been very blunt and dismissive about what they termed his "phantom" ailments. He truly appreciated Ella's acceptance. He understood her line of reasoning about developing new patterns of thought, too, he really did. However, he also recognized the fundamental flaw in her logic.

_Nothing was happening to him now._

/-/-/-/-/-/

_**A/N**_

* According to my Googling there are 3 major cords of nerves that cross the shoulder.

** This is a paraphrasing of Dumbledore's statement to Harry near the end of _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows _by J.K. Rowling. "Of _course_ it is happening inside _your head_, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?"

Please read and review.

I would never dream of laying any claim to these characters.

Not beta'd or Brit Picked.


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